Drabble Fifty-Three : Relapse

Everyone's out. Except me because I lied about where I was going. I told Ian I wouldn't be in for work because Reba wants to meet up for a chat. Which sounded out of character to him, that I would even consider such a notion. But then, he believed me because the lie made sense, as did my supposed indifference to the idea. So now Ian's at work, Lip is at Carl's parent teacher bullshit, Mandy's who knows where but probably at that hair school trying to convince someone to let her in the program. The baby is with that batty woman down the street. Debbie ran out crying because of something to do with Frank. I'm alone finally when I pull out a needle, spoon, cotton, lighter, and the stuff I bought off some hood-rat by the bay.

Do I really want to do this? Yes and no. But definitely yes. Or maybe no.

It doesn't matter because if I don't do it, I might claw my skin off.

Ever since Greg's taunt, shooting up just one more time is all I can think about. How it feels and how much I miss it burns a hole through my chest. Until I finally tie my arm up and the drug courses through my veins. Calms me. I moan and fall back against the sofa. Quick, I tug off the rubber tie and drop the needle beside me. My head lolls back and I just breath and stare up at the ceiling. Let the high wash over me. I'll ignore the wetness on my cheek for now. God I'm going to regret this later. I kind of already do. But I feel too at peace to let the guilt weigh on me as it should.

How long I'm sitting there, I don't know. I wake up to the sound of angry tears. My eye fly open and I struggle to clear my head. The high isn't completely over, but almost. I'm fuzzy. Starring up at Ian, my stomach drops. I just know I look like a kicked puppy.

He's more than a little angry. On his hip is Liam, sucking on an action figure. Ian's eyes are bloodshot and wet. He's baring his teeth at me in silence. He shakes his head and storms up the steps without a word. When he comes back down, I've only managed to bend forward and locate the needle, jabbed into the sofa by my hip. I sit the needle and tie on the coffee table with the cotton and spoon. I don't know where the lighter went. Touching my face, I will my heart to slow down. Fucking nervous as I am now, I might kill over.

"God damn you!" Ian screams on his way back down the stairs.

I wince as he rounds the sofa, standing there with his hand on his hip, face still every bit of angry and sad.

"I thought you were at work," I comment, apprehensive, wishing I hadn't chosen today to fuck up.

Ian flails an arm, furious. "Yeah, well, I'm not!" he barks. "Liam got sick and someone had to go get him," he says. Surveying the coffee table, he sighs heavily and his eyes well up. "Mickey, Jesus Christ," he groans and I can hear the depression in his tone. Ian holds his face, breaths for a while.

I have no idea what to even say. Sorry really isn't going to cut it, even though I am.

When he's done thinking or whatever he'd been at, Ian looks at me and swallows. His face settles into the mask I remember from our breakup a little over a year ago. Hard to read. But definitely sad and angry. Determined, this time. "Why?" he asks me, more of a command.

Blinking a few times up at him, my eyes wide, I stutter out something even I don't understand. Then scratch the back of my head and chew my bottom lip. There's a ball in my throat that aches worse than ever before. "Man, I fucked up," I say, looking instead at the table top and all of my evidence. "I don't know," I shrug, clearing my throat, refusing to fucking cry. "I just. . .I needed to," I say, helpless, and hug myself then fall back into the sofa. I won't meet his eyes because I'm afraid what's there.

Ian, he paces the floor for a minute, stops by the archway. With his back to me and his arms crossed, he says, "So you lied to me." There's a second where I think he's going to leave this and storm out the backdoor. But then Ian asks, "Who did you buy off of?" and his voice is so hurt, so weak, and yet accusing.

I skewer my face up. "Don't go there, Ian! It ain't your business!" I bite. Because he means to think I went back to Greg. And I might have fallen off the wagon, but hell will freeze before I stoop so low again.

"No, Mickey! I'll go where I want with this! You are my business!" Ian bellows, turning around. He's livid by now. His face is almost purple. Marching toward me, Ian towers over the sofa. "Stay put!" he growls.

And he leaves me sitting on the couch, more confused than I've felt since childhood. Slams the front door on his way out. Liam cries from upstairs.

"Shit," I breathe, falling forward, head between my knees.